


When All That I've Been Living For Is Gone

by lavenderiris



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anger Management, F/M, M/M, Marriage, Mum figure, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-17
Updated: 2018-03-17
Packaged: 2019-04-01 11:18:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13997157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavenderiris/pseuds/lavenderiris
Summary: What actually happened to John's chair.





	When All That I've Been Living For Is Gone

It was done.

The months of wedding planning. Of making reservations and calls, and socialising with Mr and Ms Watson’s friends and family. Of seating arrangements and flower arrangements and sorting what colours go with what. Arguing with Mary about the putrid yellow of that hall, and attempting to dress the bridesmaids accordingly so that she stood out from the rest of them.

It was all done.

John was married and Sherlock couldn't stand another minute in this festering hole. And so he quietly folded up the sheet music; the song he’d written for John and Mary’s first dance, and he packed up and got out of there.

Sherlock would never be able to tell you how he got home, everything from the exit of the hall to the entrance of 221B was lost on him, the thoughts in his head flurrying around without order. No one thought sticking, except: “John’s gone now.”

He stared at his home. 221B. It looked wrong. Wedding plans were all over the flat, the napkins he’d folded – “Opera House”. 

There were invitation templates on the coffee table and the floor. There were mock decorations everywhere. And on John’s couch, was one of Mary’s cardigans. It was grey and soft like John’s jumpers but it smelled wrong. It messed up the smell of John’s chair.

 _John_.

John wasn’t going to be sitting there anymore, reading his stupid mystery novels, or tap-tapping away on his blog. John wasn’t going to nag Sherlock into eating, or asking where the milk had gone. John wouldn’t make him tea anymore. Tea.  Maybe this once he could make John a tea. John likes tea.  Tea for bed time. Tea for soothing hurt feelings. Tea for healing injuries. Tea as something to do with your hands while a client incessantly rambled about their stupid cases. There was black tea, white tea, red tea, green tea. Tea came from the Asias, and from India.  There were poisonous tea’s. Teas that would make you hallucinate, or kill you. There were tea stains on John’s chair. Tea stains, blood stains. Sherlock’s blood. John’s blood. Blood from a client. That was a difficult case. Cases. He couldn’t go on cases with John anymore.

"Argh!”

He burnt his hand. Transport. It’s of absolutly no matter - it’s just transport. Hands. He had to do something with his hands. He put the tea down next to John’s chair. John likes tea. But he wouldn’t be drinking it anymore.

Blinded by rage, he threw John’s chair across their living room. It hit Sherlock’s and moved it slightly to the right.  

Hands.

Hands.

John isn’t coming back.  Tomorrow, he’ll have to put it away. He couldn’t keep going if he had to live with that reminder of him, day in, and day out. Music. The violin - it helps him to think when John can't. He can't think. He can't. He picks up the violin and begins to play  a few notes. No, that's wrong. It's wrong. John doesn’t like Bach. What does John like? Stupid pop songs. Stupid. Pop songs are good for releasing your feelings, John said. 

Fine.

But Sherlock doesn't know any pop songs. Wait. John hummed a sad one sometimes.  Why?  He sang along and tried to remember the words, feeling them as they engulfed him, causing him to stop playing.  Sherlock heard footsteps coming up to him. There was a half second imbalance on right leg. Bad gait.

Not Mycroft. 

Not _John_.

Mrs Hudson. 

He turned around to her and expected to see pity in her eyes. No pity.  Just sadness. For him. Sherlock felt a sob escape from his throat, and fell to his knees, leaning himself into her.  She wrapped one arm around him, and ran the other through his curls. 

“I know dear,” she said. “I know.”


End file.
